


The Pomegranate Seeds

by BeepGrandCherokeeper



Series: The World Back Into Tune [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Child Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hand Jobs, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Nature, Separations, Smut, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 05:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeepGrandCherokeeper/pseuds/BeepGrandCherokeeper
Summary: “Where else is there?”North shrugged. “The underworld.”None of the gods had ever visited the underworld. Hank was surprised North even mentioned it, but she sat at his table looking for all the world like she'd made a natural suggestion. Hank shook his head."What could the lord of the dead do for me?"





	The Pomegranate Seeds

**Author's Note:**

> Formerly one of the Hades + Persephone AU threads on twitter, now a full fic! The sequel will come later. Thank you to everyone who's already expressed their enjoyment and love. You're all amazing!

It was an accident. Nobody’s fault. A series of mistakes.

The first fault was Hank’s. He’d been distracted that morning, harried by the prayers of a hundred farmers hoping for a fertile spring. Cole bounded around him, full of energy, begging him to come outside and throw the discus, or to let him help with his work. He glimmered like a sunbeam, Hank’s bright and beautiful boy, his only natural child. The light of his life.

Hank had dismissed him. “Find someone outside to play with,” he said, rifling through his herbs. “Come back for lunch, and don’t stray too far.”

Cole nodded, too high strung even to say, “Yes, Papa,” and flung himself out the door, whooping and hollering.

Hank was well respected amongst the gods and all lesser creatures. He brought spring to the land, and very few would ever have thought to harm something that belonged to him. Still, as a precaution, whenever Cole left the house without his father, he gave his son protection. A kiss on the forehead was enough to mark Cole, to tell gods, men, creatures, and the fates that this was his beloved son.

That day, Hank let him go without it.

Hank didn’t fear anything. He had forgotten what fear felt like, until a dryad came to his door some time later, wailing in a reedy voice. “Come quickly,” she cried, taking his hands in her brittle fingers. She would say nothing else. Then, he remembered.

They ran to a river, running high and quick with the increase of freshly melted snow. Cole was nowhere to be seen. A cluster of dryads and naiads whispered to each other, looking at Hank with frightened faces.

“What happened?” he asked. “Where is my son?”

A naiad came forward, her head held high. She spoke with a tremble in her voice. “We were playing, my lord. Here, by the river.”

“Playing,” Hank repeated. He cast his gaze around the riverbank. “So he’s hiding somewhere?”

“We called and called,” she said, “but no one could find him. It wasn’t until I consulted my sisters that I...”

Another naiad burst into tears. Water poured down her cheeks, sending ripples across the surface of her skin. “I couldn’t catch him,” she wailed. Pulling from the arms holding her back, she threw herself at Hank’s feet. “He went by so quickly, by the time I realized what happened he was too far.”

Hank took several long, quiet moments to understand.

“Where does this river end?” he asked.

“The sea,” the first naiad said, “many miles from here.”

“Have any other naiads seen him?”

“A few. They all said the same. The river had him, and would not let him go.” 

Hank bent down to lift the weeping naiad to her feet, putting his hands on her shoulders. She would not look at him. Her body shook with sobs.

“You tried,” he said, even as it broke his heart to say it. “That’s all we can do.”

“We will search for him,” said a dryad. “Anywhere.” 

Hank shook his head. “My son is a demigod, but he’s still just a boy. And I... I will speak to the other gods.”

He left the naiads and dryads to their business, as they organized a rescue effort anyway. He knew they wouldn’t succeed. He had forgotten the kiss.

Hank sent a missive to each of his brethren, but he went to Markus in person. The god of the sea met him in a quiet room, not in the hall with the driftwood throne, and looked at him with sad, mismatched eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I feel no trace of him.”

“So he was pulled from the water?”

Markus winced.

“It... it is more likely that he died, Hank.”

Hank went home. He sat at his table, in his empty house. There was no sound of pounding feet, or of laughter. His bear of a dog lay on his side near Cole’s bed, whining pitifully. Cole must have drowned, Hank thought, unable to stop himself. Maybe Cole hit his head on a rock, lost in the tumble of the current.  _ Why _ had he forgotten to protect Cole? Were the matters of some human farmers more important than the life of his only son?

Hank did not move from his seat. Not when day turned to night, and not when the nymphs called at his door, and not when supplications poured in from desperate men. The weather slipped back from warmth and wind to bitter chill, and in two months, it was as if spring never came. 

The other gods visited him. Some of them begged for spring, others demanded it. He never responded to any question, or moved to defend himself. The last of them to come, their final resort, was the goddess of war. She prowled the room, watching him with angry eyes. 

“I could bring an army down on you,” she said. “Humans are stupid, I could turn them against you easily.”

Hank stared at his hands.

“Is that what you want? To die?”

He looked up at her, just for a moment. Something passed between them, an understanding. She sighed, and sat. 

“Have you looked for him everywhere?”

Hank cleared his throat. He hadn’t spoken in months. “He is nowhere on earth.”

“I don’t mean on earth.”

“Where else is there?”

North shrugged. “The underworld.”

None of the gods had ever visited the underworld. Hank was surprised North even mentioned it, but she sat at his table looking for all the world like she'd made a natural suggestion. He shook his head.

"What could the lord of the dead do for me?"

"He could give your son back." North pointed at the table as she talked, mapping out an invisible battle plan. "If he's not on earth, then Cole has probably gone to the underworld. The lord of the dead hasn't seen any of us in hundreds of years, not since we ran him off. If you demand he return your son, with the implied threat that we'll come after him if he doesn't, I'm sure he'll cave. And if he doesn't..." She grinned. "Come back and find me."

Hank hummed. "I'll think about it."

"Fine. That's a better result than anyone else has managed." She softened again as she started to go, leaving Hank at his table. "I'll tell them to fuck off for a while, if that'll help. Might buy you some time alone."

"Thank you," Hank said. He waited for her to vanish from his realm, feeling her presence disappear, before he stood. At the sudden change in routine, his dog rose from where he had been sleeping for so many months and came to stand at Hank's side.

"What do you think, Sumo?" Hank murmured, rubbing the beast between the eyes. "Should we go?"

Sumo barked so loud it shook the earth. 

They set out the next morning, leaving the little house behind. Hank looked back once as they walked, unsure whether he was sorry or relieved. Hank and Sumo lived in that house longer than could be said, and they had been happy there - but the six years with Cole outweighed them all. He passed a few clusters of living beings, many of whom didn’t seem to recognize him. None of them approached, too afraid of the giant dog or too cold and miserable to bother. 

Near the river, which they had to cross, a familiar face peered out at him from under a sheet of ice. Out here, Hank observed the effects of his dereliction of duty firsthand. The trees were bare and dying, bitten by frost, and the wind cut so deep it felt like a knife. Sumo had his fur to keep him warm, but Hank shivered in the light linens he usually wore. They traveled outside of time, the sun hanging frozen in the sky as if it, too, was the victim of Hank’s despair. It hovered on the horizon, leading them to the place where legend said the dead queued outside the gates, waiting to be led down, down, down into the earth. No mortal could see it without divine intervention, and no god had been there for as long as Hank could remember. Still, as the rages of winter became worse and snow piled up around him, he knew he would find it. How, he couldn’t say, but he imagined Cole’s voice calling him. 

Sumo was the one who found it. As Hank stood in the center of a copse of trees, shivering slightly, a booming bark drew him forward and to the beginning of a gentle slope. At the bottom of the path, half-hidden by gusts of wind swirling sleet, was the mouth of a cave. When Hank strained his eyes, peering through the veil between this world and the next, he did see thin, spectral forms watching him with varying levels of curiosity. Some of them had sunken eyes and hollow bellies, others seemed otherwise well. They ranged from young to old. Tearing his gaze from a young woman holding a too-small infant, Hank whistled for Sumo to follow and started down toward the cave. No one tried to stop him. There were no gates at the mouth, no one waiting to turn him away. 

The line of souls waiting for rest ended unexpectedly. None of them looked like Cole. Hank hadn’t expected them to. It had been some time since the river took his son, and yet Hank still felt disappointed.

“Hello?” he shouted, his voice echoing around the cave. Multiple pathways stretched ahead of him, receding into the darkness. There was no response. If he hadn’t seen the souls outside with his own eyes, he might have thought this place was just an ordinary cave.

He knew better.

Picking a passage at random, he and Sumo resumed their descent. They’d find something somewhere. He had nothing but time. 

It was hard to say exactly how  _ much _ time Hank spent in the depths, wending his way through empty caves. The trailing bits of his clothes dragged through dirt and cobwebs, leaving him a mess. Sumo scared off several unknowable things lurking in the dark, watching Hank move with bloodshot eyes. Eventually, they crouched and crawled through a narrow exit and emerged on the banks of a cavernous subterranean lake. The room glowed a quiet blue, the only lights coming from clusters of crystals. Liquid dripped from stalactites and hit the water with an echoing plop. After miles of nothing but rocks and spiders and bleak, chilly darkness, the sight distracted Hank as much as it captivated him. He didn’t hear the rustle of fabric as someone approached, or feel a gaze burning the back of his neck.

When he turned, the man was standing very close. “I’m impressed,” the man said, in a voice that implied the opposite. “No one has made their way down here in a very long time.”

The man was corporeal, so far as Hank can tell. He was dressed in dark robes, draped loosely around a belt cinched at his slim waist. A blue crystal blossomed from the man’s temple, held in place by a thin coronet. It glowed faintly, pulsing. There was no warmth in his brown eyes. They pierced Hank sure as if the man could see through him, hard as flint, and he knew he wouldn’t get Cole back without a fight.

“You’re him,” Hank said, putting out a hand to ward off Sumo. To his surprise, the dog ignored them both, happy to root around in the dirt and stick his front paws in the water, bending to drink.

“Him, being?”

“The lord of the dead.”

The man grinned wryly. “I'm not called that very often. You must be a god. Forgive me for not providing you with a welcome better suiting your status.”

Hank bristled at the less than subtle brush-off. “What do they call you here, then? All your subjects?”

It was the man’s turn to stiffen. “They are not my subjects, and I am not their lord. Is it considered polite amongst your kind to turn up uninvited and insult someone in their home?” He turned away, frowning. “I have other things to do.”

“My kind?” Hank snapped. “What are you supposed to be, then?”

“Not a god,” the man said. He sounded bitter, almost angry. Hank was surprised to recognize himself in that bitterness, like seeing his reflection in a fragmented mirror. “I'm not like you.”

“But you’re in charge of this place.”

“As much as anyone can be, of death. Why?” he added, looking at Hank over his shoulder. “Did you come down here seeking to save your beloved from the jaws of death? That’s been done before, and it didn’t turn out well.”

Hank made a face. The man knew he’d hit a nerve. He smiled again, a cruel twist to his lips.

“Who, then? A wife? A lover? Or one of each?”

“My son,” Hank said. “My only son.”

It hurt him to say it, like ripping his heart out of his chest and laying it at someone’s feet. It was the first time he had acknowledged Cole’s death aloud. Tears sprang into his eyes. 

The man froze. The only change in him was at his temple, where the crystal glowed and dimmed in a rhythmic pattern, casting shadows across his face.

“Oh,” was all he said. Something softened in his gaze. It looked like pity, as hateful as it had been from the other gods.

Hank turned his face away, refusing to wipe at the tears spilling over and down his cheeks. “It was an accident. I - he fell in the river, and it was too fast. No one could rescue him. We searched for him everywhere.”

“Everywhere,” the man said, “but here.” 

Hank clenched his fists, swallowed his pride, and nodded.

The man frowned, looking down at his feet. The crystal glowed a little brighter. “What is his name?”

“Cole,” Hank said. “His name is Cole.”

“A young boy.”

“Six.”

“I know him.”

Hank’s heart leapt into his throat, beating wildly. The tears brimmed over again, fresh and with relief instead of sorrow. “My son,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. “Take me to him.”

The man shook his head. “You won’t want to see him.”

“He’s my son,” Hank snapped. He could feel his temper flaring again - he wouldn’t be turned away now, not when he was so close, when he could hold his boy in his arms again. “You can’t tell me he’s here and then not let me see him.”

“You can’t,” the man said, firmly. 

Hank stormed forward to take black robes in his fists, jerking the man toward him. Sumo, who finally looked up toward them, began to growl. “Listen, asshole. If you don’t take me to Cole, I’ll tear this place, this whole realm apart. Bit by bit. You can’t stop me.”

“I could,” the man snapped back, grasping Hank’s wrists to free himself. His fingers were cold. “But I would rather let you suffer from your own stupidity than clean up after you.” He pulled away, no longer looking so sad. “Follow me, then,” he said, “if it suits you.”

Waving a hand, a new hole in the cave wall opened, blossoming as if from nothing. Sumo nudged up against Hank’s arm, rumbling a low, easy sound, and they followed behind the man at a safe distance. He never looked back at them. They walked through several more apertures before arriving in a field of grain. The fabric of reality bent around them, creating a place both there and not, warm like a summer’s day with a wintery bite at the edges, where the sun shone and its rays felt cold. In the distance, a small figure stood still. The grain came up to its waist, waving gently in a breeze Hank barely felt. 

The man lingered at the door, sidling carefully out of Sumo’s way. The dog took a few steps, cringed, and backed away, tail between his legs.

“Go,” the man said, folding his arms. “We’ll wait.”

“That’s him?” Hank asked, squinting.

The man nodded. That was all the word Hank needed. 

He started across the field, first at a walk, and then at a run. He cried Cole’s name, waiting for his son to turn around, to hear him. A stone’s throw away, he stopped. The happiness curdled in his chest and made him sick. Cole wouldn’t turn around, wouldn’t acknowledge him. He was the stillest Hank had ever seen, not bursting with energy or trembling with suppressed laughter. It frightened him. It petrified him. 

“Cole,” he said, putting out a shaking hand. “I came to get you. Won’t you look at me?”

Cole stood still. His little chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. When Hank stepped in front of him, crouching down to put his hands on tiny shoulders, Cole stared past him blindly. 

“Cole,” Hank said again. “Cole, please.”

“He can’t see you,” came the man’s voice, carried to him as if across the wind. When he looked up, squinting, the man stood beside him. His irritation had receded, slightly, in favor of that damnable pity, again. Hank wanted to shake him. 

“Why not?”

“This is a place for the dead.” The man touched Cole’s chin, gently, with one long, slender finger. His barely-there smile was one of genuine affection. “They find peace here, untroubled by life’s burdens. There’s nothing for the living. He’s been removed from you.”

“Then bring him back.” Hank choked on a sob, forcing the words through anyway. “He’s right here, I’m right here. I can’t leave him. Bring him back to me.”

Hank grabbed the hem of the man’s robes and tugged, looking up at him. He’d never been on his knees before anyone.

“Please.” 

The man bit his lip. “I can’t.”

Hank crumbled. He wept into his hands, slid down into the grain and wished that it might cover him, bury him deep in the earth. Cole stared out onto the horizon, unaware of his sobbing father, and the man in the black robes watched him, silently. 

Later, he took Hank into a more habitable part of the caves. He wouldn’t look at Hank’s face, apparently uncomfortable with his display of grief, but he waited patiently when Hank’s legs refused to carry him any further. Sumo nudged at him when he stopped, whining. 

“I did try to warn you,” the man said. He paused for Hank to respond, but Hank felt as if he had nothing left inside him, wrung out with grief and loss and despair. The man didn’t talk again after, not until they reached a sparsely furnished room. “You may rest here, for now.” He gestured toward a bed pushed against the cave wall, and then again to a plain chair sitting beside a stone table. There was only the one. “I apologize for not having anything to offer you, but...” He shrugged. “You wouldn’t care for my libations.”

Hank wouldn’t speak. He kept his eyes trained to floor, feeling them burn like he’d stared into the sun. He wanted nothing, had asked for nothing - if the lord of the underworld had left him next to Cole, he might have stayed there for the rest of time. He had no care what happened to him now. 

The man sighed. “I have things to do. If you have need of me, call my name and I’ll come. Otherwise, I trust you might find your way out, when you’re ready to go.”

It wasn’t the warmest of invitations. Still, Sumo curled up on a spread carpet and closed his eyes. They’d stay. 

“You never gave me your name,” Hank said, noting the way his voice cracked.

“You never asked.”

Sinking onto the mattress, Hank rubbed a hand over the dried tear tracks on his cheeks. “Fair enough.”

The man lingered in the doorway. “Connor,” he said finally. “If you have need.” 

Hank fell asleep before he could think to get up again, curled tight in on himself against the mattress. He was too exhausted to do anything else. When he woke, eyes gradually adjusting to the dark room, it took him a moment to distinguish Connor from the blackness. Sitting in the chair, his robes draped around him, he sipped at a steaming cup of something. Hank’s mouth was dry, and he ached for food in a way he hadn’t for months, but Connor apparently had nothing for him.

“You needed that rest, apparently.”

Scrubbing at his eyes, Hank sat up. 

“How long has it been since you slept? Not since he...?” Connor trailed off, almost respectfully.

Hank swung his legs off the mattress. “A while,” he said, patting his leg. Sumo laboriously got up and replanted himself under Hank’s hand.

“We may be immortal,” Connor said, “but that is pushing it.”

“What was I supposed to do?” Hank patted Sumo, rubbing him between the eyes. The dog heaved a heavy sigh. “What else does a father do?”

“I don’t know,” Connor said. He took another sip. “I haven’t seen a living soul in centuries. I'm unfamiliar with that side of the process.”

“What side?” Hank asked. “What process?”

“Death,” Connor said simply. “Did you think someone passed, and that was the end of it?”

“It’s outside my purview. Death isn’t part of the job so much as...” Hank waved a hand, feeling almost embarrassed. “Rebirth.”

Connor snorted. “You’re that one, then. The god of spring. You weren’t around before I came down here; good to put a face to the concept.”

Hank was newer than the rest of the pantheon, it was true. He was also not sure how to feel about Connor’s derision, his cold, uncomfortable cynicism. Connor’s evident unhappiness spoke to something in him, made him feel at ease, and then he’d say something just one side of cruel and throw Hank off balance again.

As if on cue, Connor eyed him appraisingly. “I had pictured someone younger. Less... hmm. Less something.”

“You weren’t what I was expecting, either,” Hank said, bristling. “At least I thought you would be more helpful.”

“It’s not my choice.” Connor set his cup down on the stone table, crossing his leg at the ankle. “There are rules, and if I don’t abide by them, things fall apart.”

“You don’t make those rules?”

“No. I enforce them, but the rules were in place long before me.”

“So what are you, then?” Hank leaned forward, hoping this barb stung the way Connor had stung him. “A glorified clerk?”

To his surprise, Connor snorted again. “It feels that way. What is it, exactly, that the god of spring does?”

Hank frowned. Was he being tested?

Connor stood, another wry, almost sarcastic smile tugging at his lips. “Besides the obvious.”

“I answer prayers. Things about planting and livestock birthing hale young ones, usually. Sometimes something else slips in.” 

Connor held out his hand to help Hank off his bed, hefting him to his feet with surprising strength for a man so slender. The crystal at Connor’s temple blazed with a sudden flash of light, and then settled again. Hank pulled his hand away.

“Let me show you what I do.” 

It took Connor days to explain everything to Hank. He told Hank what it was like before he arrived, an uncountable backlog of souls lingering, lost in these caves with no way of knowing where they could rest. Lonely, and desperate, they had lashed out when he arrived. 

“They tried to tear me to shreds,” Connor said. Pulling his robes to one side, he showed Hank a scar on his abdomen that Hank knew would never heal. “Any human who traveled down here met that same fate.”

Hank tried not to think about the constellation of moles dotting Connor’s skin. 

In the end, Connor said, leading Hank to a wide room with a stone hewn seat at the back, all they needed was some organization. It took work, years of work, but he established a system where each soul was dealt with as quickly as possible and directed to their place of resting. 

“I used to sit here,” he said. He ran a hand along the arm of the throne as if greeting an old friend. “I would handle thousands of cases at a time, trying to fix what had so clearly broken. Now, it largely runs itself. I oversee, and get directly involved when I'm needed.”

“How?” Hank asked, putting his own hand on the stone. It was cold to the touch, and looked uncomfortable. Solitary, in an empty room.

Connor’s mouth twitched into a smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Death is hard for the dying, too. Sometimes the transition is messy.”

“Are they angry?” Hank thought of Connor’s scar. Who knew a ghost could do so much damage?

Connor shook his head. “Usually they’re... sad. Missing loved ones, upset their lives are over.” With a sigh, he sank into his seat, slumping against the stone like he was deflating. “I remember your son,” he said, choosing to look out into the room rather than at Hank. “He came here so quickly he didn’t know what had happened. Once he realized...”

He looked haunted. Tired, and plagued by specters of other people’s worst emotions, their deepest despairs. 

“It was my fault,” Hank whispered. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. “If I had thought to protect him, instead of chasing him off to go play...”

“You wouldn’t be here,” Connor said.

Hank couldn’t tell what he meant. He still looked so tired. “Why are  _ you _ here?”

For a long time, Connor was silent. He examined his nails, laying his hand flat on the arm of the throne. He adjusted the coronet at his temple. 

“They didn’t tell you?”

“No one talked about you.”

Connor sighed. “It’s as they prefer.” 

That ended the conversation. Connor wouldn’t answer any more questions, about himself or the underworld. Instead, he drifted away with the repeated promise that if Hank had need, he could call. 

Hank had no sense of direction down in the dark and wandered around the caves aimlessly. Eventually, he made his way back to the subterranean lake where he and Connor had met. Sumo was there, chasing luminescent crabs in the shallows. Wagging his tail hard enough to create a gust of wind, he nudged at Hank’s legs as if asking him when they were going to go. 

“I can’t,” Hank said, taking Sumo’s broad face in both hands. “Cole is here, how can I leave him? Where else can I go?”

Sumo licked his hand.

He had a responsibility on earth, mortals who needed his help and freshly planted seeds frozen in the ground. There might have been people in the underworld, amongst the dead, because of him.

All that felt so remote to him, far away and unimportant. Cole was here, even if he couldn’t see him. And Connor - Connor was here. Even if Hank wasn’t sure how he felt about him, it was a comfort. So he stayed. 

Connor seemed surprised to find him at the lake again, hours or days later, an eyebrow raised as he asked why Hank hadn’t moved.

“I get lost down here,” Hank said. “Nothing like it where I’m from.”

“All rolling fields and green valleys?” Connor asked. He sounded derisive, again, but Hank simply shrugged. Let Connor deride him. It was the truth. 

“Yeah, but there’s nothing underground.”

Connor turned to face the lake, gazing out across its surface and at the crystals shimmering in time with his own. He fit in here, pale and otherworldly, but it was clear he had changed himself to do so. He didn’t look comfortable the way Hank felt in his land. He looked... resigned, like there was nothing else he knew.

“Come,” Connor said, holding out an arm. “Tell me about your home.” 

They talked more and more as time slowly passed. Connor never answered his most invasive questions, although he asked plenty himself, but slowly, things became... easier. Connor was brusque, and occasionally had trouble empathizing, but he meant well. He had a good heart. Hank saw it in brief flashes, when Connor went to his work in Hank’s presence. A grieving woman, weeping for the loss of her lover, was soothed only by Connor’s palm on her cheek and his soft voice in her ear. A young child raged at him for not having enough time, and he endured it gracefully. 

None of them noticed Hank beyond a brief glance. He barely saw them himself, and knew instinctively that if he tried to touch, there would be no sensation.

“You’re too alive,” Connor said when Hank asked. “They aren’t of your realm anymore, and you’re not of theirs.”

“They see you,” Hank retorted. “I can touch you.”

Connor looked away quickly. A faintly red hue rose in his cheeks. “I’m different.” 

Hank felt his stomach flip, but he ignored the cause. Connor recovered himself too quickly, and Hank... well. It wasn’t a thought. Not just then.

They never went to see Cole again. Hank thought about asking, more than once, but he decided against it each time. It hurt him, to fall apart like that, and he couldn’t ask it of Connor if all he was going to do was sob and wail and grieve. It felt... better, to let that lie. The guilt of living without the ache snuck up on him, too, gave him pangs physical enough that he felt as if someone had carved his heart out with a knife. Connor asked him about it, sometimes. He was curious, inquisitive, and if Hank had the words he didn’t mind sharing them. 

There was nowhere to sleep but Connor’s bed, and he still wouldn’t offer Hank food or drink. When exhaustion overcame Hank, Connor would offer up his room, but he never stayed while Hank rested. Connor rarely ate in front of him, too, as if he were embarrassed. 

Hank never admitted it, but he hated how quiet it felt when Connor departed to do whatever it was that occupied him while Hank slept. He hated how easy it was to slip back into despair, how his thoughts ran themselves ragged inside his head, and how he... missed the company. 

“Don’t you sleep?” he asked one day, before Connor left the room.

“Occasionally,” Connor said. He wouldn’t look at the bed where Hank reclined, laying back against the pillows. “But I need very little.”

“You seem tired more often, lately, and I've taken your place.”

“Don’t trouble yourself with it,” Connor said, shaking his head. He tried to leave again, but Hank’s voice froze him in place sure as if he’d put out a hand to stop him.

“You could rest here.”

When Connor finally spoke again, it was little more than a whisper: “With you?” 

Their eyes met. Hank felt as if Connor’s gaze might light him on fire. Scalded, torn apart, scrutinized - and finally, put back together.

“Do I take up that much space?” Hank laughed, trying not to sound nervous. “There could be room for us both. If you needed the sleep.” 

Connor lingered in the door for what Hank thought might be a thousand heartbeats, staring silently. His lips parted, mouth open as if he was poised to speak. No words ever came. Instead, he left, the sound of his sandals slapping echoing back in Hank’s ears as Connor sped away. 

Hank’s dreams were troubled. He was alone in an empty universe, and yet a thousand pairs of eyes watched his every move. He couldn’t call out, couldn’t find Cole, couldn’t find Connor, and his heart thudded in his chest like he’d run across the breadth of the earth. When he woke, struggling out from under the weight of his nightmare, he focused on the gradual slowing of his pulse, the coolness of the dark room, and Sumo’s quiet breathing next to him on the bed.

Suddenly, Sumo let out a noisy snore. The sound came from under the table. Slowly, Hank turned to see who shared the bed with him. 

Connor lay on his back, one hand draped over his stomach. It rose and fell with his breathing, his fingers curled gently into the fabric of his clothes. His coronet sat on the bed between them, its dim crystal the only light in the room.

Soothed, and still tired, Hank drifted back to sleep. 

Connor’s eyes were open when Hank blinked himself awake again, shifting against the mattress with a soft grunt. Connor glanced to the side, over the coronet still resting between them.

“You offered,” he said, as if he meant to preempt any of Hank’s protests. 

Hank wiped at his face. “Yeah, I did. S’ your bed.”

Burying his head in the pillow, Hank turned on his stomach and squinted past the fabric. He wanted more sleep, and the luxury of resting with the comfortable feeling of having someone nearby. Instead, he reached out and touched the tip of the crystal with a finger. It was cold to the touch, almost frigid, but it flared to full brightness. Connor watched him silently, his hair mussed with sleep. He didn’t object, even when Hank twisted the coronet and pushed it to the side to see Connor better.

“You’re not what I expected,” Connor said. 

“You’ve mentioned,” Hank said, stretching until his back cracked.

“None of the gods were like you.”

Hank thought for a long stretch about what he wanted, whether Connor might want it too. Tentatively, he brushed Connor’s arm with his hand, skin to skin. “Tell me what happened.” 

Connor closed his eyes. He didn’t pull away from Hank’s touch, but he wouldn’t reciprocate it, hands fisted in his robes as if he were forcing himself to keep still.

“Do you remember a time before the gods?”

“Not really.”

“I lived among men, then. We all did, but we were born from a different power. Over time, that power brought us into each other’s circles, and we... commiserated, I suppose.” Connor hummed. “It was difficult for someone like me, trying to find my place. I wanted to fit in with the humans, but not all of us did.”

“Why?”

Connor opened his eyes, looking askance at Hank. “Why, what?”

“Why did you want to be with the humans? They’re...” Hank couldn’t find the words he wanted. He had a soft spot for them, after years of thinking he was one, but at best they were inconsequential, maybe. Small-minded, and short-lived.

“They were alive,” Connor said. He sighed. “So alive. I don’t know how much of the old crowd is still around,” he continued, wiping his mouth like he could scrub wistfulness away. “They decided to separate from mortals, to put themselves in charge. Humans already came to us for spells and benedictions. Why not make it official?”

“You objected,” Hank said.

Connor smiled one of his sad smiles. “I fought. I didn’t want to be like them, clawing for greatness when they might have been happy. Our lots weren’t so terrible. Lonely, maybe, but the others saw that as a challenge, not a burden to bear.” 

Connor rolled to a sit, unable to look at Hank any longer. “You can guess what happened next,” he said, throwing his legs over the bed.

Hank propped himself up on an elbow. “They won... and you came here.”

“They put me here. Banished me as my punishment for rebelling.” 

It was cruel. Hank couldn’t imagine Markus being part of that decision, or Rose, or Ben, and yet he didn’t know when they had come into being. He’d never asked.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

Connor glanced over his shoulder. There was a scar on his temple where the crystal usually sat. “Don’t be,” he said. “I never said I didn’t deserve it. What else could they do, with someone who killed a god?”

Hank blinked back surprise. “How did you-?”

“I've said enough.” Connor got to his feet, reaching blindly behind him to grab for the coronet. “You should leave.”

“Connor,” Hank said, pushing himself up, “I don’t care what you did, I don’t-“

“I said you should go.”

“Don’t chase me out as some sort of self-inflicted punishment.”

The words came out stronger than Hank intended, more harsh, and angry in a way he hadn’t felt for some time. Broken. 

Connor wouldn’t turn back. “You have a job you’ve neglected for too long. Leave me to do mine.”

“My son is here!”

“Your son,” Connor seethed, finally whirling on his heel, “is dead, and you will never get him back. Stop wasting time here on foolish fantasies and go home.” 

Connor left, spine straight and fists clenched, disappearing halfway through the door without a sound. Hank threw back the bedclothes and rolled onto the floor, wishing he had the will to throw some of Connor’s things around. He couldn’t - there was too little to break. 

“Sumo,” Hank called, snapping his fingers. The dog stuck his head out from under the table, grumbling. “We’re leaving. Come on.”

Sumo whined.

“Come on,” Hank said again. He crouched, wincing as his knees popped. “We can’t stay here, we’re not welcome. And you can’t sleep under there forever.” 

Sumo leveled him a look that clearly said “try me,” and hunkered down. Losing his patience, Hank grabbed two handfuls of Sumo’s scruff, summoning up all the strength he had to tug him out.

“You dumb mutt,” Hank growled, heaving, “we can’t - stay -“

Sumo lunged toward him. The sudden movement threw Hank off balance, sending him crashing to the floor. In Hank’s shock, Sumo shook loose of his grip and bounded out the door, barking so loud the caves shook. Pebbles rained down on Hank’s head. He threw up an arm to protect himself. 

“Sumo! Sumo!”

The dog was gone. Hank swore as creatively as he could, stumbling to his feet on sleep-shaky legs. He hated these caverns, and he hated how easy it was to get lost here. It would take Hank ages to find Sumo, if he didn’t want to be found.

For a moment, he considered calling Connor’s name. “Fuck,” he said instead.

Hank tried to follow the sound of Sumo’s barking, but with the echoes it was nearly impossible. He made what he knew were several wrong turns, taking him deeper and deeper until his ears popped. After hours of desperate wandering, a fresh fit of barking led him up a narrow pathway, through two entryways, and around the outskirts of the subterranean lake. He refused to look for Connor in that room, or to notice the brilliance of the crystals. He was leaving, anyway. 

“Sumo!” he yelled again, as the barking faded. The ruckus had brought him to a dead end, an empty cave with a high ceiling and a natural incline up to - the dais. Connor sat there on his throne, head buried in his hands. He hadn’t heard Hank enter. 

It would be easy to turn away, Hank thought. Then the anger got the better of him, the betrayal, the hurt, and he stepped into the middle of the room.

“You’re an asshole,” he said, the echo reverberating around the room. “You know that?”

Connor took his head from his hands and leaned back against his seat. “I could say the same to you. Why haven’t you gone?”

“Lost my dog. Or...” Hank scratched his beard. “Think he brought me here on purpose.”

“Why?” Connor asked, propping his head up on his fist. He looked exhausted.

“Don’t know. To tell you off, maybe. You kind of deserve it. Anyway,” Hank added, folding his arms across his chest, “how am I the asshole here?”

“Because you disrupted my complacency.” Connor sagged into himself, closing his eyes again. “You came here, and you wouldn’t go, and you reminded me of what I'm missing. I can’t forgive you.”

“I came here for my son.”

“Yes,” Connor said, “and I couldn’t give him to you. So why did you stay?”

Hank had no answer for that. Not one he was prepared to say out loud.

“My job is to bring the dead peace. They grieve, or they fight, but they learn to be happy. They want for nothing here, with time, and I take my comfort from knowing that I've given them an easy ending. I...” Connor faltered. “I don’t know what to do with you. Sorrow and sweetness, complication. I can’t give you anything. There’s nothing for you here but loss.” 

Hank took another step, toward something he couldn’t quantify.

He had never loved another being. Not truly. Cole’s mother had been an impulse, a mutually satisfying encounter they never expected to repeat before she became pregnant with a demigod. He didn’t know where she was now. He loved Cole, of course, but that was different. Simple. 

Still, his son took up so much of his heart that finding a space, unoccupied and waiting for someone else to slip in, was a surprise. Now it yawed before him like a bottomless pit, waiting for him to fall. The thought scared him, but Connor waited on the other side. Hurting, and lonely, just as Hank was himself. Hank wanted to understand him, to sink with him into the depths, to bring him up into the light. He had never wanted anything like this before. 

“I meant what I said.” Hank spoke softly, but his voice still echoed as if he had shouted. “I don’t care what you did.”

Connor stood unsteadily, anticipating his approach. “You should.”

“Maybe. But I don’t.”

“I killed Spring.” Connor’s voice trembled. “With a knife in the back.”

“You care,” Hank said, approaching slowly. “You care about everyone here. You’re gentle with them.”

“We were arguing, shouting, and I - couldn’t stop myself.” His eyes welled with tears. “It was cowardly.”

“You took me to see my son, because you were sorry for me.”

“I killed my mother.” 

Connor was crying, biting his lip and bowing with the force of his sorrow. Still, he never looked away from Hank. The truth was out, now. He had no reason to hide.

“You’ve paid for it,” Hank said, coming closer. “Every day, you’ve paid for it.”

“It’s not-“ Connor’s breath hitched. 

“It is enough.” Hank put his hands on Connor, wrapped his fingers around Connor’s shoulders and held him upright. “Grieving is hard. It hurts. But... you made me forget, sometimes. Who I am. What i’ve done.”

“You blame yourself,” Connor whispered. “For losing Cole.”

“I did,” Hank admitted. “I do.”

“Then what right do you have to tell me I should let this go?”

“None.” Hank bent slightly to press his lips to Connor’s forehead, under the circle of his coronet. “But it’s easier, with someone else. It stings a little less. You deserve that.”

“I don’t,” Connor said, grabbing handfuls of Hank’s clothes. “I deserve to be here, alone. Why couldn’t you leave me alone?”

He flinched from Hank’s fingers coming to brush his tears away, swaying like he was too drunk to stand. Still, he stayed anchored to Hank, clinging tight. 

“Dunno.” Hank put his hands over Connor’s, instead, squeezing gently. “Stubbornness. Selfishness.”

He opened his mouth to say something else, to add to his list of vices or to reassure Connor again. Instead, a pair of chilly, dry lips pressed to his cheek, rasping against his beard. “I can’t,” Connor mumbled into his skin, even as he moved to bite at the hinge of Hank’s jaw. “Please, go home.”

“You can have this.” 

Hank took Connor’s chin between his fingers. This time, Connor didn’t wince. 

“You can have me.”

“I can’t,” Connor said again.

He kissed Hank. He kissed like he was drowning, like he was desperate, like he hadn't been touched by a living hand in millennia. It made Hank's chest ache, to think of him all alone down here, miserable and hurting. He cradled Connor's head in his hands, holding him like he was precious. Connor  _ was _ precious. He was beautiful, and Hank wanted nothing more than to keep him close.

"Hank," Connor whimpered, moving his trembling hands to clutch at Hank's back. "I want you to stay."

"I know," Hank murmured, smoothing back his hair. He kissed Connor’s cheek. 

"You can't." Connor sucked at the column of Hank's neck again, wetting him with his tears. "You can't stay."

"I know."

With a shuddering sigh, Connor buried his face in Hank's chest. He took a step backward and tugged Hank with him, turning them as he walked. When Hank felt something hit the back of his legs, he sat on instinct, dislodging himself from Connor with a thump. They didn't stay separated for long. Connor climbed into his lap, throwing his arms around Hank's neck. It took Hank a moment to realize he sat on Connor's throne. 

"Touch me," Connor said. He took hold of Hank's wrist and put it beneath his robes, on his chest, dragging it down until Hank's palm sat at the base of his sternum. "Please, Hank. I want-"

"Okay," Hank whispered. He leaned forward to kiss under Connor's ear, nipping at the lobe. With the hand Connor placed on his own chest, Hank pushed the robes to the side, baring pale shoulders starred with freckles and moles. He squirmed under Hank's touch, mouth hanging open, tears still gathering at the corners of his eyes. Hank circled one pink nipple with his finger. "Have you...?"

Hank was too afraid to finish the question, too wrapped up in how lovely Connor looked and what he wanted to do to him.  _ You want to keep him _ , a voice whispered in the back of his mind,  _ to take him apart at the seams and leave him sobbing your name. _

Hank didn't want to leave him at all.

Connor bore down in Hank's lap, rubbing himself against Hank's groin. The thin linen of Hank's tunic did nothing to hide his growing interest, or to protect it from Connor's onslaught.

"Yes," Connor said. He ran a hand up Hank's thigh, nails skirting through the hair there. 

Hank couldn't stop the question, wincing even as he spoke: "With humans?"

Connor smiled. It was the gentlest he'd ever seen Connor, reassuring and kind, his soul pouring out his eyes. 

"No one who mattered." He rolled his shoulders, letting the robe fall. "No one who stayed." 

The robe caught around his waist where the belt cinched, leaving Connor's torso free, but that wasn't good enough. Hank wanted to touch him everywhere, to kiss each mark on his skin. 

"Could you...?" Hank started to ask, looping a finger into the belt to tug. Connor brushed his hand away. 

While Connor struggled with the rest of his clothes, fumbling with both hands, Hank ran his fingers along the contours of Connor's chest, his abdomen, a thumb brushing along the scar left from his first attempt to manage the spirits here. He had other marks. None were so large. 

"I'm sorry they hurt you," Hank murmured. He took the coronet from Connor's head and dropped it to the floor, pulling Connor in to nose at the burn on his temple.

"It wasn't their fault," Connor said. He threw his belt over his shoulder. "They didn't know better."

Hank peeled Connor out of the robes like he would a ripe fruit, baring him to the empty room. The robes pooled over their thighs, over Hank's knees, before they, too, fell to the floor. "I didn't mean the dead." He splayed his hand over Connor's stomach. 

"Please," Connor cried, wrapping his hand around Hank's wrist. "I want - Hank, I-"

Hank brushed a brimming tear from his eye, cupping his cheek. "We have time," he lied, leaning forward until their foreheads kissed. "What do you want?"

"You. Inside me."

Hank raised a brow. "Unless you have some oil stashed somewhere nearby, that's not happening. Hey-" he added, as Connor squirmed in his lap, "Connor, shh, I'll take care of you. Scoot closer, come on." 

He urged Connor forward, bringing him in until there was barely space between their chests. Connor was too close to look at properly - Hank hadn't even thought to stop and drink in the sight of him, naked and eager in his lap, but he brushed that aside in favor of reaching between them to flip the bottom of his own tunic out of the way. Connor sank his teeth into Hank's neck and worked his way up and down, hands moving restlessly while he left impermanent marks on Hank everywhere he could touch. 

He was almost - feral, Hank thought. There was something wild in him, untamed, raw. Connor wanted so strongly it eclipsed everything else. It made Hank weak with desire, made his heart pound, his hands shake, his cock throb. 

Slowly, carefully, he took hold of Connor and gave him a few steady pumps, reveling in how Connor threw his head back and gasped. He was suddenly still, taut as a bowstring, thrumming for Hank. Making nonsense soothing sounds, crooning them into Connor's ear, Hank brought Connor's cock to his. He couldn't help a shudder at the sudden sensation, the first of its kind in a very long time, and Connor's needy panting didn't make it easier to control himself. 

"You," Connor sighed between heavy breaths, threading his arms around Hank's neck and leaning close to his ear. 

Hank wrapped them both in one fist, testing the pressure, the glide, how much of this he could take. It wouldn't be long. 

"You changed everything,” Connor said, “you're-" 

Hank hushed him, carding his free hand through Connor's hair. It was soft, and smelled cool and clean, like mineral water. He took that same hand and dipped down to cup one of Connor's ass cheeks, urging him forward and up, rocking into Hank's grip. "Help me," he said, kissing messily at Connor’s cheek, jaw, temple. "Work with me, sweetheart, please."

Connor moved in earnest, then, reacting to Hank's request or to the sweet words, or both. Tears flowed again as Connor squeezed his eyes shut. They dripped onto Hank's shoulder. 

"Another time," Connor said, apparently unable to stop himself from talking - from making promises neither of them would be able to keep - “I'll... I'll love you like you deserve, Hank." He dug his nails into Hank's skin. "I'll make you sing."

Hank couldn't bring himself to respond. 

"Would you want me again?" Connor asked. Rolling his hips against Hank's, he took control, pressing himself in close until Hank's hand was trapped between them. "Hank?"

"Yes," Hank whispered. It was his turn to close his eyes, begging internally for release, hoping it wouldn't come just yet. 

"You'll stay." Connor's voice was so quiet Hank almost didn't hear him, too inaudible to be picked up by the echoes in this empty hall. "I'll get on my knees for you, and fill you, and - spill down your throat, anything you want, and you'll stay-"

He cried out. Hank’s tunic caught the worst of Connor’s mess, even as he jerked and spasmed and rubbed against the underside of Hank’s belly. Overstimulated as he was, those last few thrusts were enough to do Hank in, too. 

Connor’s words repeated in his mind, his fantasies laid bare. Hank wanted Connor - not just now, panting into each other’s mouths as they kissed through aftershocks, but forever. He wanted to fuck him, to spread him out and take his time, to be consumed by Connor’s fire and burned until nothing of his old self remained. He wanted to love him. 

Hank sniffled, trying to quell his own crying before it started in earnest. How unfair all this was. How terrible that his son had died, how awful that Connor spent millennia here alone, and how heartbreaking that now, after all this, Hank knew he had to go back. 

Connor had to be thinking the same thing. He wouldn’t pull back from Hank’s neck, quivering slightly, trying to hide the way he gasped for breath through silent, shivery sobs. Hank wished he had a cloak or a blanket to wrap them in, so they might curl up in a cocoon and never emerge again. Connor had to be freezing, naked as he was.

“It’s all right,” Hank murmured, hoping it might ease some of Connor’s hurt. “I'm here, Connor.” 

“For now,” Connor said. His voice was steady and even. Resigned.

It had to be enough. 

They walked back to Connor’s room and climbed into bed, wrapped up in each other too tightly. Hank had discarded his tunic, balled up on the floor. Connor stroked through the hair on his chest, tracing patterns that trailed up his shoulder and down his arm. His eyes were dry. 

“When will you leave?” he asked. All the romantic notions that they might stay together were gone, but Connor huddled against Hank’s side like he couldn’t bear to part from him.

Hank pulled him in closer, wishing he could disappear beneath his skin. Two people becoming one. “Never,” he said, even as he knew it was wrong to say it aloud.

Connor nosed at Hank’s beard. “People are dying, Hank. They need you.”

“I need you.” It hurt to admit it, to say aloud that his heart resided in someone else’s body. He felt vulnerable, exposed to loss again. 

“They can’t feed themselves, Hank. And they’re so cold. Think of them, coming to find me with empty bellies and frost caught in their eyelashes.”

“You love them more than I can.”

Placing a kiss under Hank’s chin, Connor sighed. “That isn’t true. I just want them to live well. Let them come at the end of long lives, marked by a hundred seasons where the flowers bloomed and the sun shone, and gentle breezes teased their skin.”

Hank loved all those things, as he’d loved watching his son experience them. He stroked the line of Connor’s back, thinking. “Do you miss it?” he asked. “Seeing the spring.”

Connor went so quiet Hank thought he might have fallen asleep. When he had given up on hearing the answer, Connor spoke.

“My mother’s spring was very orderly. Controlled. She liked everything to happen in her specific way. But there came a point,” he said, “when the wildness couldn’t be contained any longer. That was what I loved - the freedom.”

“You could be free with me.”

Connor kissed him again, on his collarbone. “Who would take care of the dead?”

“Someone else.”

“No one did it before me. No one would do it after me. I can’t leave, Hank, and you can’t stay.”

Hank pulled away from Connor, sitting up to lean against his knees. There had to be something. “What if I came back?”

“Hank,” Connor said. “There’s nothing for you here.”

“There’s you.”

“Am I enough to make you happy? There’s only me, and living things don’t belong here.”

Hank grasped for something else, something he could use, some miracle just out of reach. There had to be an answer. He’d  _ make _ one. 

“Make me belong, then. Make me yours.” 

“Hank...”

Connor rubbed his eyes and stretched, his lithe body curving up from the mattress. He was so beautiful it made Hank’s heart hurt, made him want to kiss every inch of his speckled skin and never leave this bed again.

“Is there nothing at all we could do?” 

Connor slid out of bed, naked body pale against the grey backdrop of the cavern walls. He avoided Hank’s gaze. “There are rules,” he said, reaching for his robes. Watching him slide them on, unbelted, was like watching a wall draw up between them. “I've never needed them.”

“Anything,” Hank said. 

Connor handed him his tunic, still stained. Either of them could fix that in an instant, but Hank left his clothes on the bed.

“Living beings aren’t meant to eat what grows here. It’s food for the dead. If someone were to eat too much of it...” 

Hank was familiar with these sorts of rules. Some of the gods played games like this, offered temptations they thought no man could resist with consequences he’d come to regret. He found no pleasure in it, but in this case... It would take more than a bite of food to kill him. “I want to try it.”

“It’s no life,” Connor snapped. His hurt was bubbling to the surface again, making him short, upset, forcing him to push Hank away. “One foot in the grave for the rest of your existence. Forever, Hank. Pieces of yourself caught between two worlds.”

“That’s already how I feel.” Hank crawled out of bed, still naked. Sneaking his hands between the folds of Connor’s robes, he touched his hips and rubbed circles into his skin. Connor wilted into his arms, bending like a flower to the sun. “You’re here. My son is here. My heart is here. Even if I went back, I’d be leaving it behind.” 

In the end, they dressed themselves properly and Connor took him to the place where dead things grew, far below the earth in a section of the cave Hank had never seen before. Trees and shrubs bore fruit, richly colored, and vegetables nestled in sulfuric dirt sprouted green leaves, waiting to be plucked. He led Hank along loosely maintained pathways, wandering through the underground garden like he’d been here thousands of times before. He probably had. Hank wondered if he thought about his mother when he planted, helping these fields grow wild and beautiful. Hank thought of the greenery around his house, of the flowers he kept and the herbs he grows, and for the first time, he felt a little homesick.

“Here,” Connor said. Taking Hank by the hand, he brought him to a collection of shrubs grown so tall they were like trees. “These,” he said, reaching up to pluck a piece of fruit off the tree, “are my favorite.” He did something with his hands, passing energy from himself into the fruit, and it unfurled itself in his grip, splitting perfectly at the seams. Its insides were red, and gleaming. Hank caught its scent quickly, struggling to place it - and he remembered. 

“You drink this.”

Connor smiled. “I make tea out of it. One of my very few indulgences.”

The smile withered and disappeared. Connor held the fruit in his hands like he meant to throw it to the ground. “I don’t want this for you,” he said. “I want you to be free.”

“I am free.” 

Hank stepped closer, wrapping his hands under Connor’s. They held the fruit between them, fingers overlapping, and it reminded Hank of human weddings he’d seen at the height of spring celebrations. All they needed were vows - promises they could keep, and not just castles in the air. 

“My feet carried me here,” Hank said. “My feet will carry me back. But I want to keep a piece of me here, with you. That way I'll have to come back and reclaim it.”

Connor laughed, a little. “It’s lonely. And painful.”

“If I have you,” Hank said, plucking a jewel from the fruit and putting it to his lips, “I’ll be fine.”

He ate six small pieces before Connor made him stop, pulling it away. He felt no different, but Connor understood the symbolism as much as he did. 

The fruit tumbled from his hands into the dirt, spilling its contents. Hank opened his arms, his fingers lightly dripping, and Connor stepped between them. He chased the taste in Hank’s mouth, clutching at him desperately, and Hank knew that were he a man, leaving would kill him. 

They found Sumo in his usual spot, playing in the pools, and made it halfway to the exit before Hank admitted to what he’d been thinking about since they left the garden. “Hey,” he said, pulling Connor’s hand until he stopped. “Could we... could I see Cole again? One more time.” 

Connor’s mouth pursed like he wanted to say no, but he capitulated quickly. Hank knew what he would see, this time. There was no reason to tell him no.

As soon as Hank saw the fields again, his stomach twisted like he was going to be sick. He squeezed Connor’s hand. 

Connor walked out with him until he pulled loose, spanning the last few yards towards Cole alone. Everything felt muted here, quiet. Peaceful. At home, Cole would be whooping and hollering, crossing the fields a hundred times before he got tired. The thought made Hank smile. “Cole,” he called softly, feeling the grain tickle his bare legs, the breeze stirring his hair. “I came to say goodbye.”

His son turned his head.

“Hey, Dad,” he said, smiling wide. He was missing a tooth, the same one he’d lost a week before Hank lost him. “I missed you.”

“Did you know?” Hank asked later, when he’d had his fill of holding Cole, when he’d finished crying, when he’d told Cole that he would come back soon to see him again and left him, waving and full of new, strange energy.

“No,” Connor said. He cupped Hank’s face in his hands, smiling. 

“Now I really have to come back,” Hank laughed. He covered Connor’s hands with his. “Will you take good care of him?”

“Of course. You changed him, Hank. Seeing you again... He’s different now.” Connor thumbed a tear away from Hank’s cheek, one he hadn’t known escaped. “So am I.” 

They kissed at the gateway between realms, and again, and again, until finally Connor had to take a step back into the cave, pulling himself from Hank’s grasp. It took every ounce of will Hank had not to hustle them both back inside.

“I'll bring the spring,” he said. “And then-“

“You’ll come home,” Connor said. Tears sparkled in his eyes, but he didn’t look so miserable anymore. Not so lonely, not so broken. “Or - I’ll come to you. For a short time. This place might spare me for a few days.”

Hank grinned. “Find me in the fall. Then we’ll go back together.” 

Sumo gave Connor a long, sloppy lick and a wag of his tail before he took off up the path out of the crevasse, eager to get home. Hank followed, but not without several stops to look back. Connor watched him until he was out of sight.

It hurt - but it was always going to hurt. 

Hank was back less than a day before he received a summons, well into the work of reversing the damage he’d done. He stood in front of his fellow gods, facing their anger at how he’d abandoned his duties, and he thought about Connor and Cole. He told none of them the truth. 

Spring was beautiful. The dryads and naiads forgave him his absence readily, eager to smooth over their fault in Cole’s death, and he did what he could to make up for his negligence. Petitions from the humans under his care received special attention. He wanted to love them. 

He missed his family, and sometimes, he struggled with the familiar feeling of guilt, but as the seasons changed, and summer slowly gave way to fall, Hank knew he’d done the best he could. Things would only get better.

In the fall, Connor came for him. Hank opened the door to find him lingering on the doorstep, eyes roving everywhere, avoiding Hank’s gaze as if he were afraid.

“Come in,” Hank said, reaching out to draw Connor over the threshold. “I missed you.”

Connor smiled. “I missed you too, my love.”


End file.
